


This Place is Going to the Dogs

by monday7112



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-20
Updated: 2012-04-20
Packaged: 2017-11-05 00:41:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/399990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monday7112/pseuds/monday7112
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John quite accidentally end up with a dog. Sherlock considers the dog a witness to a crime. John considers the dog a new member of the family. So much fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Place is Going to the Dogs

**Author's Note:**

> My friend Mandy sent this little plot bunny hopping my way because she is EVIL. And, as it turns out, I apparently can't resist her pleas.

"Any witnesses?" Sherlock inquires with a tone that tells John he is well aware that there is at least one.

  
Lestrade glances at Sally who shakes her head and walks away. Anderson comes around the corner. "Just one," he says and something about his expression makes John think he must be enjoying this.  
  
Sherlock ignores Anderson completely and looks back at Lestrade. "Where is it?" he says.  
  
"Don't you mean where is he or she?" Lestrade corrects.  
  
"No," Sherlock says. "I mean, where is it? The dog. It must be around here somewhere, she quite clearly never leaves it."  
  
Anderson's face falls when he realizes that Sherlock already knows the witness is a dog and he leaves the room again. Sherlock still ignores him completely.  
  
Lestrade sighs. "You cannot honestly want to question the dog."  
  
Sherlock locks eyes with John, giving him the "Do you see what I have to put up with?" eyebrow raise and then returns his gaze to Lestrade. "Don't be ridiculous. Dogs can't talk. I want to take it home with me."  
  
"You want to...what? Why?" Sally sputters at the exact same time as Lestrade coughs a little on the sip of coffee he was downing and squeaks out "There'll be a next of kin who will want to collect it."  
  
John's voice rises above them both. "No. You can't keep the dog, Sherlock..."  
  
"Do you have any idea how much information might be hidden on that dog?" Sherlock answers. "There are at least a dozen different things I can learn from its fur alone. I need to take custody of the dog."  
  
* * *  
  
In the end, Sherlock overrides all of their objections, mostly because the next of kin--the victim's nephew--didn't care in the slightest and was just planning to drop it off at the shelter anyway. John's sitting in the lab at Saint Bart's, staring at the dog who is returning his gaze without blinking. John wants to look away but he read somewhere that the dog will take this as a sign of weakness and he figures establishing dominance early on is probably a good idea since neither of them really have any idea what the dog's temperament is like and well. It's a big dog.  
  
"Has it told you anything at all yet?" John asks Sherlock, who is at the microscope. "Perhaps what its name is?"  
  
"Patience John," Sherlock calls in that annoying voice of his that implies he already knows the dog's entire history from the small hair sample he took a few minutes ago. "And we don't want to give it a name. You give it a name, you'll get attached and it's a witness, not a pet. Don't forget that."  
  
John isn't in the mood to argue so he continues his stare down with the dog. The dog eventually yawns and lays its head down, closing its eyes and John, considering the staring contest won, finally permits himself to look at his flatmate. "He'll be needing walked soon," he says.  
  
"The leash is hanging up by the door," Sherlock says without looking up.  
  
"Of course," John says with a sigh, reaching for his coat.  
  
"Will you get me a coffee while you're out?"  
  
"Why not?" John responds. He grabs the leash. At the sound the dog jumps to his feet and his tail begins wagging wildly, knocking a few glass beakers over and sending them crashing to the floor.  
  
"Make sure you clean that up when you get back," Sherlock says. "We don't want the dog getting cut."  
  
John clips the leash on the dog.  
  
"Here," Sherlock says, holding out a hand. He's holding a blue plastic bag.  
  
"What's that?" John asks.  
  
"To clean up after," Sherlock says. He waves the bag, eyes still glued to the microscope.  
  
"Right," John says, grabbing the bag out of Sherlock's hand in exasperation. "You know, you're the one who wanted to bring the dog home. I'm not going to do this all the time for you."  
  
* * *  
  
When John wakes up the next morning, the dog is already awake staring at him hopefully. John rubs his eyes and blurrily puts on his bathrobe. Together they pad down the stairs but when he opens the door, the dog just stands there wagging its tail.  
  
“Well, go on. You wanted out didn’t you?”  
  
The dog doesn’t move. He looks from John to the leash and back again. “Right,” John says, closing the door. After he’s showered and dressed, he and the dog head out for a walk. Sherlock hasn’t moved from the bed, which he only just fell into a few hours before, having spent most of the night analyzing various clippings from the dog.  
  
* * *  
  
Three days later, when John and the dog return from the third of their now thrice daily walks, Sherlock is facing the wall, his face a study in frustration, bouncing a ball against it. He hasn’t noticed their presence and John knows better than to try to talk to him. Although his body is physically present, he’s not here at the moment. Instead, his mind is likely half a city away, at the crime scene, going over every detail he had observed the morning after the murder.  
  
The dog starts whining and jumping a little bit and, reminded of its presence, John unclips the leash. The dog immediately chases down the ball Sherlock has just tossed. Unaware of the dog’s entry into his game, Sherlock’s hand reaches automatically up to catch the bounced ball. He looks surprised for a moment when the ball does not return to his hand until he finally registers the dog standing in front of him, tail wagging, ball in its mouth. When Sherlock doesn’t react, the dog drops the ball and nudges it toward Sherlock. With a bit of hesitation, Sherlock picks up the ball and tosses it again, the dog chasing after and retrieving it. John watches the scene play out, expecting Sherlock to tell him to get the dog out of the way.  He’s not even allowed to walk between Sherlock and the wall when he’s throwing his thinking ball at it. Sherlock, however, just nods as though he’s unlocked some sort of secret about dogs heretofore unknown to him (possibly that they like to play fetch. John is not ruling out the possibility that Sherlock had either never learned or had long ago deleted that particular fact) and tosses the ball again.  
  
John quirks his lip a little, not quite a smile but close.  
  
* * *  
  
Sherlock is watching a mixture he has just created in one of his vials. Apparently it doesn’t do whatever it is Sherlock is wanting it to do because after a moment he slams it down in frustration. “Dammit,” he says. The dog is laying on the floor beside John, who is sitting in a chair reading the paper. They both glance up at Sherlock. John returns to his paper after a moment in which Sherlock makes no other comment, but the dog gets up, stretches, and trots over to where Sherlock’s ball is sitting against the wall. He picks it up and takes it over to Sherlock, who is now examining something he is holding in tweezers. Sherlock reaches down and scratches behind its ears, then takes the ball and gives it a toss without looking away from the object he is inspecting. The dog chases down the ball and returns it. Sherlock gets up, sits down in his customary position on the floor and tosses the ball toward the wall, the game of fetch begun. After a lengthy period of time in which John wonders if Sherlock is even still aware that he is actually playing fetch with the dog, Sherlock jumps up and runs over to the microscope. The dog stares mournfully after him but doesn’t follow. Even it has realized it’s pointless to try to get Sherlock’s attention when he’s at the damn thing.  
  
“Have a break through, did you?” John asks. Sherlock doesn’t answer. John watches him for a minute then sighs. “We might as well go for a walk old boy,” John says. “He may be awhile.”  
  
The dog runs over to John and begins prancing in excited partial circles around him. “Yes, all right. I know you’re excited. Let’s go.”  
  
When they return, Sherlock flings the door open. “When did you leave?” he asks, nearly breathless with excitement. “Oh never mind that, I have excellent news!" he proclaims. "I broke the case while you were out. Lestrade's just called. They made the arrest."  
  
"That's wonderful," John says. "How did you figure it out?"  
  
"Well, I couldn't have done it without this little fellow!" Sherlock says, reaching down and ruffling the dog behind its ears. "Come on inside and I'll explain."  
  
John unsnaps the leash and the dog goes bounding up the stairs in front of Sherlock.  When they get inside, Sherlock relays his breakthrough in the case to John.  
  
"That's brilliant," John says. "All that from the dog's fur?"  
  
"The mud in its paw pads," Sherlock counters.  
  
"Brilliant," John says again. While Sherlock had been talking, John had been thinking. About how much he enjoys walking the dog. How the dog's presence calmed Sherlock when he was frustrated with the case. How seamlessly the dog had integrated into their lives. It's hard to imagine that he hasn't always been a fixture at 221B, John reflects, and even more difficult to imagine following through on the plan to take him to the shelter now that he has. He ruffles the dog's fur fondly and then stands up. "I'm going to go to the store to pick up some groceries."  
  
Sherlock doesn't answer. His attention is already focused on something he appears to be dissecting on the dining room table. John knows better at this point than to ask what it is. He also knows better than to try to take Sherlock's attention away from it. "I'll be back in a bit," he says. He pauses at the door. "I think we should keep the dog. That okay with you?"  
  
Sherlock doesn't answer. John takes that as assent.  
  
* * *  
  
Sherlock is asleep on the couch when John returns but the dog is nowhere to be seen. "Where is he?" he asks Sherlock, walking into the kitchen, flipping on the light and then peering up the stairs. "Is he upstairs?"  
  
"Who?" Sherlock asks, looking genuinely confused.  
  
"The dog, where's the dog?"  
  
"Oh," Sherlock says. "The nephew called while we were out. His daughter begged him to let her keep the dog and he gave in. He stopped by a little while ago to pick it up."  
  
"No, but we..." John says, swallowing back the lump in his throat. No. If the nephew wanted the dog, surely he had a bigger claim to it than the two of them did. He swallowed again. "I didn't realize he had changed his mind."  
  
Sherlock sits up and watches John keenly. "You're upset."  
  
"What?" John asks then decides there's no real point in trying to lie to Sherlock. Not when he's actually watching him. "Yes. I mean, we. We just agreed to keep it, didn't we?"  
  
"Don't be ridiculous, John," Sherlock snaps. "Why would we keep it? What use could it possibly be to us now? The case is solved."  
  
"Just because it's not of use to  you ," John snaps, not even bothering to remind Sherlock of the conversation before he'd left for the store. Sherlock probably hadn't heard a single word he'd said. He should know better than to talk to him while he's dissecting, "does not mean it's not of use to  anyone in the house , Sherlock. I quite enjoyed its company."  
  
"Regardless," Sherlock says, "it's gone now. Unless you want to go tell that little girl that she can't keep the dog."  
  
John concedes the point but can't quite bring himself to return the dog supplies.  
  
* * *  
  
John spends the next several days trying to work through the unexpected emptiness that the dog's departure has brought to their flat. He keeps to the routine they established, going out in the morning and in the afternoon for a walk. It's good for him; it clears his head, but it isn't the same. He misses his furry companion.  
  
The flat is just a little too quiet. No sound of paws padding across the floor or the quiet snuffling of a nose investigating the pile of books Sherlock's dumped in the corner. Even Sherlock reaches out from time to time to pet at the air, looking startled when there's no furry head there for him to rub.  
  
"You going for a walk?" Sherlock asks. It's time for John's afternoon constitutional, so he nods.  
  
"Will you get me some more patches while you're out?" Sherlock asks.  
  
"Sherlock," John snaps, "my walk doesn't take me anywhere near the store."  
  
"Then take a cab," Sherlock says, reaching over to the table and grabbing his card out of his wallet. "Here, use my card."  
  
John glares at Sherlock, swiping the card out of his hand and stomping down the steps without a word. He's still angry at Sherlock for letting the dog go, although he knows that even if Sherlock had remembered that John wanted to keep it, he would have had no choice.  
  
He returns to the flat an hour and a half later, nicotine patches in hand. "Here," he says as he walks through the door, intentionally throwing them at Sherlock's head. "Take your stupid patch..."  
  
He stops mid-sentence because right next to Sherlock, something very large and very furry has leapt to its feet and is making its way toward John, tail wagging, tongue hanging out.  
  
John drops to his knees and the dog comes bounding into his arms, licking all over him. John tilts his head back and laughs. "Hiya boy!" he exclaims, ruffling the dog's fur.  
  
He stops for a second and his eyes meet Sherlock's. "I thought you didn't want him," he says. "What about the nephew?"  
  
"Turns out," Sherlock says with a soft smile, "the little girl was allergic. And since logically it does me no good to have you moping about the flat, too depressed to help me on my cases, I figured we might as well take him in."  
  
"You mean we can keep him?"  
  
"Yes," Sherlock agrees. "You can keep him. But since you're the one who wanted it, I'm not going to be responsible for walking it or cleaning up after it."  
  
John jumps to his feet, the dog trailing behind him and wraps his arms around Sherlock. "Thank you," he says, brushing his lips across Sherlock's. Sherlock returns the soft kiss and then gives John a small nudge.  
  
"Well, go on. He's been whining for you since he got back here. You'd better give him some attention then, hadn't you?"  
  
John kisses Sherlock again, a soft peck on the cheek and then crouches down to the dog's level. It promptly knocks him over and a wrestling match between the two of them begins.  
  
"We're going to need a name for it now," Sherlock says fondly.


End file.
